


Ghost

by TheLastWhiteRose



Series: Mayday Parade [1]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, I literally make myself cry, Murder, haha - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 13:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12277650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastWhiteRose/pseuds/TheLastWhiteRose
Summary: (MC) is dead. She has been for sometime. Until she’s not, and the if Supernatural has taught her one thing, it’s that she needs to be put to rest before she can finally be at rest.





	Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> This gon’ be a series, so don’t expect me to update too often. I’ll try my best.

(MC) was dead. It was a fact, an undeniable genuine truth. She was gone, passed on to a better place, or whatever else bullshit condolences the others had expressed to him. In the months that (MC) had been de-, no, missing, Zen had become a recluse, taking a leave of absence from his musical work. He'd been immersed in the logistics and nuances surrounding (MC)’s murder, scrounging the Internet until the early hours of the morning, and even then, he'd stare at the ceiling, murder details spiraling relentlessly as the sun awoke, blessing his despondent bedroom with hopeful rays of light. 

Such were the circumstances on one faithful morning. The day started as usual, with Zen staring blankly at the decrepit pockmarks of his ceiling. His Internet scrounging from the previous had yielded nothing of note, and was essentially journalists regurgitating the same informations until the repetitiveness of it caused Zen to retire earlier than usual. The haunting image of (MC)’s comatose body, drained and lifeless was traumatizing enough, but the dehumanization of her was what broke Zen. The journalists spoke about her as if she was a mutilated object, and not as someone who lived, who laughed, who loved. They were the third person limited narrator, who only knew what happened to her, the circumstances of her death, and not her personality. 

He had only been asleep for five minutes, teetering on the precipice of genuine, restful, REM sleep, before he felt it. It, in this case, being a small weight at the edge of his bed. One ruby orb opened slightly, and upon seeing nothing, closed promptly. Again, he felt the small weight resisting the larger force of his body. The weight dissipated, only to manifest closer. Throughout this, Zen had his eyes closed, refusing to give into the temptation that was his insatiable curiosity.

Soft, featherlight fingertips graced across Zen’s jawline, caressing his roughened skin gently. Those same soothing touches migrated to his head, petting more than anything. The scene was so serene that Zen was tempted to ignore the fact that there was possibly a stranger stroking him and revel in the peaceful scenario, but the responsible side of him forced his eyelids to snap open, his brain unable to comprehend the scene before him.

There was (MC), her eyes as vibrant and hopeful as the day she met him. The hand that had been running through his hair stopped, her mouth parting into a silent ‘o’. She was here, in all her undead glory. Her hair fell in graceful swoops, as if she had gone to the salon days before. She was virtually untouched by death, as alive as she had ever been. As she gauged his reaction, her hand rescinded ever so slightly, before Zen caught her wrist, enjoying the feel of her soft skin against his calloused fingertips. Questions raced through his mind, his face expressing the bewilderment his lips couldn’t. Regardless of what she was, or had been, Zen pulled her into an embrace, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. 

When they separated, Zen stared at (MC) incredulously, before opening his mouth to speak. “I saw the photos, y-you’re dead. You’re supposed to be, at least.” His voice wavered, and he retracted from her quickly.

(MC) took a deep breath, let half of it out, and gazed into Zen’s eyes. They were overcast, riddled with the agony of several sleepless night. “Zen,” she said, and her voice was quiet, almost timid. “I need your help. I need you to help me find out who killed me.”


End file.
